A swift shadow darkened David's fine face and he shaded his eyes with his hand. Then he went to the little girl and raised her as though she were one of his carefully cherished flowers. Her sobs ceased as she found herself in her father's arms.
"You see," said her father, "she has no mother!"
Now the children knew by his tone and by the extreme sadness in his eyes that the little Daphne's mother had gone away never to return. And they knew it must be the saddest thing in the world to be without a mother; one who was always ready to understand even if you had to wait till the baby was hushed, or the bread looked at in the oven. The understanding did come, sure and tender; a mother who sometimes smiled at you in that complete, deep way, as Suzanna's mother had smiled at her the day she wore her leghorn hat with the daisies.
"Can Daphne play with us?" asked Suzanna after awhile. "And can we take her home to see our mother?"
The man's face brightened at this. "Why, that will be fine," he said. "Perhaps you'd like to play here in the grounds for awhile. Then Daphne can go home with you. You're the Procter children, aren't you? I've talked often with your father when I've bought things in the hardware shop. I'm coming sometime to see his machine."
"Yes," said Suzanna, "but how did you know we were the Procter children? We didn't tell you our name. Did Graham?"
"No," said the man, "but you're the living image of your father. You look at a person just like he does, out of your big dark eyes."
Suzanna flushed. There was nothing in all the world she so loved to hear as that she looked like her father.
Little Daphne had ceased crying and her father carried her up the narrow winding stairs to their own quarters. Shortly he returned again. The little girl now wore a pretty lace-trimmed bonnet mother-made, one knew at once, and a little white cape. She was a very charming and quaint figure.
"I think, daddy," she said, "I'd like to go home right away and see the little girl's mother."